When I walked into this dream for the first time, it didn’t seem like a dream. Everything seemed the way it was supposed to be. Nothing was out of place. It all fell in together. Except for her. She made it dreamlike.
The way the light fell, you could tell it was manipulated. Soft. Glowing. Highlighting. Shining, but not bright enough to make you look away. It drew me in. Softly but surely.
Now, there you go, wondering. How can light be manipulated? That is because dreams are a manipulation of the reality that we might want to see. Not wish for. But maybe, just want to see. To see what it might look like. It is a safe place after all. What’s the worst that can happen? You can wake up.
But I was not waking up this time. This was real. Or so it seemed.
To draw the circle complete – the shutter opened and closed. Click.
The dream of the viewfinder was over. It had all come to be. The frame had been frozen, the way I wanted it to be. The photograph was a dream. And it had been created. Manipulated.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
The terrace
I have never meant
to see this
or the way
it would be
You know
the reason
is you
I know
the reason
is you
But
why won't we
say it
Why don't
we see beyond
what we want
to see
Where are we
going to go
from here
if we don't know
where we are
The great wide open
is waiting
but
we don't think
it is there
Because
we are looking
for it
through
a key hole
And the key
lies in
the truth
that
we shy from
The truth
that is hidden
behind
these words
Where
do we
go
from here
to see this
or the way
it would be
You know
the reason
is you
I know
the reason
is you
But
why won't we
say it
Why don't
we see beyond
what we want
to see
Where are we
going to go
from here
if we don't know
where we are
The great wide open
is waiting
but
we don't think
it is there
Because
we are looking
for it
through
a key hole
And the key
lies in
the truth
that
we shy from
The truth
that is hidden
behind
these words
Where
do we
go
from here
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Homecoming
Today, in the morning, the colours seemed brighter than they usually are. The green was deeper and more profound. The black was darker and more inviting. The white was brighter and more calming.
There was something in the air which said it was going to be a great day. No, not a feeling. It was just there. Right there.
And then it happened.
A lone leaf fell to the ground. Floating, floating, floating, till it was suddenly pulled down. And bang. It hit the ground without a sound. But created ripples among the other leaves, making space for itself. Disappearing into the sea of leaves on the pathway.
Then it was clear. Before the rain started trickling down.
Invisible at first, you could only feel it on your skin. You could feel the leaves sighing together in union. Fluttering, dancing and celebrating its arrival. Waiting for it to sweep them off their feet and float them into another world. Another time.
She was back.
There was something in the air which said it was going to be a great day. No, not a feeling. It was just there. Right there.
And then it happened.
A lone leaf fell to the ground. Floating, floating, floating, till it was suddenly pulled down. And bang. It hit the ground without a sound. But created ripples among the other leaves, making space for itself. Disappearing into the sea of leaves on the pathway.
Then it was clear. Before the rain started trickling down.
Invisible at first, you could only feel it on your skin. You could feel the leaves sighing together in union. Fluttering, dancing and celebrating its arrival. Waiting for it to sweep them off their feet and float them into another world. Another time.
She was back.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Idle thoughts on a Tuesday afternoon
I want to get away
From the madness
And meaninglessness
Of this materialistic
Monotony
*
Sometimes
I think
I should have chosen
The life
That he has
*
Maybe
I will
Like him
A second time
Round
*
I find
Myself
Asking
The same questions
Today
*
Only
That I am asking them
Too early
But is there a thing
As too early
*
What was it
That they say
Better late than never
Don’t quite agree
With that really
*
The thought
Has crossed
My mind now
Why should I
Let it pass
*
There is
So much left to do
So much left to see
And today
Is not enough
From the madness
And meaninglessness
Of this materialistic
Monotony
*
Sometimes
I think
I should have chosen
The life
That he has
*
Maybe
I will
Like him
A second time
Round
*
I find
Myself
Asking
The same questions
Today
*
Only
That I am asking them
Too early
But is there a thing
As too early
*
What was it
That they say
Better late than never
Don’t quite agree
With that really
*
The thought
Has crossed
My mind now
Why should I
Let it pass
*
There is
So much left to do
So much left to see
And today
Is not enough
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Spoken understood and unwritten
It does not matter how we arrived here. What matters is that we did. And it happened on a song. We were not going to, but then it all changed. But that is not the surprising thing.
What is, is that it happened on a song. Literally. And figuratively of course. But literally.
And it happened not once but twice.
Too much to take? Maybe.
* * *
Sometimes, you just have to let go of yourself. If you don’t, it won’t happen. And you will never know. What you need to know. What you need to feel. What you need to do.
Release your inhibitions.
What is, is that it happened on a song. Literally. And figuratively of course. But literally.
And it happened not once but twice.
Too much to take? Maybe.
* * *
Sometimes, you just have to let go of yourself. If you don’t, it won’t happen. And you will never know. What you need to know. What you need to feel. What you need to do.
Release your inhibitions.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Second charade
What a false front all of them are putting up. Do any of them even think that they are being real? Maybe they do. And that is the funny part about it. There is so much pretense in this tonight. How does it matter to any of us? We are just mere mortals creating moments that have no meaning. Creating a tonight which will never matter. Are we even having fun? Maybe we are. But does it matter? Does anything matter right now? He is going to sleep with her for what it is worth. She is going to make love to him in the hope of a new tomorrow. But what is the reality? Love or sex? No one knows. But this night will end in something more than the usual. And that will be a moment that will haunt them for a long time to come. Right now they can stop it from happening but they are not going to. Because they want it to happen. And it will happen. Not because it is meant to happen but because it is bound to happen. But what does it matter anyway. Let me finish my drink and enjoy the rest of the night.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
I’ve traveled
I have stopped existing in your world.
I mean, I do exist but only just about. It is not a struggle for life or anything like that. I have just blended in and am now in a dark forgotten corner. The rage has simmered to memory. And I just lie there. And watch.
* * *
I have started shining in a new world.
I mean, I was always there but as someone else. It is something like your world but nothing like it. I have just blended in and am now in the spotlight. The novelty has set fire to a passion. And I just go out. And create.
I mean, I do exist but only just about. It is not a struggle for life or anything like that. I have just blended in and am now in a dark forgotten corner. The rage has simmered to memory. And I just lie there. And watch.
* * *
I have started shining in a new world.
I mean, I was always there but as someone else. It is something like your world but nothing like it. I have just blended in and am now in the spotlight. The novelty has set fire to a passion. And I just go out. And create.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Uncertainly unwilling
If only
For a moment
She hesitated
When he looked her
In the eye
It was
This moment
That came back
To him
When she died
* * *
Figuratively speaking, of course. She was still alive. But not his anymore. That was when he thought back to that one moment of hesitation, of doubt. Of the doubt that lingered in everything, even if it did not creep up and show itself.
* * *
It was
This hesitation
That killed
The innocence
They had created
* * *
The world that was built upon the fragile illusions of the absence of reality. Of course it had to all break down someday. But not crumble like this. Not with deceit.
* * *
But everything does not end the way it is supposed to. Or so they would have him believe.
For a moment
She hesitated
When he looked her
In the eye
It was
This moment
That came back
To him
When she died
* * *
Figuratively speaking, of course. She was still alive. But not his anymore. That was when he thought back to that one moment of hesitation, of doubt. Of the doubt that lingered in everything, even if it did not creep up and show itself.
* * *
It was
This hesitation
That killed
The innocence
They had created
* * *
The world that was built upon the fragile illusions of the absence of reality. Of course it had to all break down someday. But not crumble like this. Not with deceit.
* * *
But everything does not end the way it is supposed to. Or so they would have him believe.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Moment vs. Moment
“It was my moment versus yours.”
“Why does it have to be one against the other? We were both there weren’t we?”
“Physically yes, but there is more to it than that.”
“I am sure there is, but what the hell do you mean by your moment versus mine?”
“Well, I am sure it did not mean the same thing to you as it did to me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because we take out different memories from different moments. You are a sentimental romantic and I am a practical yet sensitive poet.”
“Oh, so the poet speaks!”
“No need to get sarcastic. I am just trying to answer your question.”
“So why don’t you compose a poem to explain it to me.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I am sure you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have the inspiration.”
“Haha. Do you think everything I write is inspired?”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Sometimes it’s just some bullshit string of words that I put together in the name of art. Let others ponder the mystery and wonders of my writing just by making it so different from what they have read before, and it comes out shining as a brilliant piece of literature. Of course there are other times when I put my heart and soul into writing something and everyone seems to misread what I have been writing about – taking out their own meanings, which ruin the very purpose of my writing. Anyway, that does not matter. That is why I say it is my moment versus yours.”
“But I am sure it does not happen all the time. There must be times when people spot the bullshit and feel the passion.”
“Feel the passion. Hah. Yes, there are times when that happens.”
“And those are the times you feel connected to your readers.”
“I suppose I do.”
“Then how is it your moment versus theirs.”
“But they don’t get the exact same feeling.”
“But they get the gist of it?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Then can’t there be times when the moment is the same for us.”
“I thought I was the practical one, but then again, this is a very romantic point of view.”
“Leave romance out of it and answer the question.”
“No. There is always a difference in the moment.”
“Stop being stubborn.”
“Okay. Okay. So there can be sometimes when the moment is same but that is very rare. Different things mean different things to different people. Like the last sentence, that was alliteration to me, a confusing sentence to you, using the word “different” too many times to someone else, clichéd to another, nonsense to another and so forth. If one simple sentence can change things then how can you expect moments to be the same?”
“Stop trying to confuse me.”
“Exactly. You are confused while I am marveling at my alliteration.”
“Words and moments are very different things.”
“Are you trying to confuse me now?”
“No I am not.”
“Then let’s go get a cup of coffee and continue this there.”
“Let’s. Maybe we will create another moment.”
“Maybe it will be the same.”
“It will.”
“Why does it have to be one against the other? We were both there weren’t we?”
“Physically yes, but there is more to it than that.”
“I am sure there is, but what the hell do you mean by your moment versus mine?”
“Well, I am sure it did not mean the same thing to you as it did to me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because we take out different memories from different moments. You are a sentimental romantic and I am a practical yet sensitive poet.”
“Oh, so the poet speaks!”
“No need to get sarcastic. I am just trying to answer your question.”
“So why don’t you compose a poem to explain it to me.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I am sure you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have the inspiration.”
“Haha. Do you think everything I write is inspired?”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Sometimes it’s just some bullshit string of words that I put together in the name of art. Let others ponder the mystery and wonders of my writing just by making it so different from what they have read before, and it comes out shining as a brilliant piece of literature. Of course there are other times when I put my heart and soul into writing something and everyone seems to misread what I have been writing about – taking out their own meanings, which ruin the very purpose of my writing. Anyway, that does not matter. That is why I say it is my moment versus yours.”
“But I am sure it does not happen all the time. There must be times when people spot the bullshit and feel the passion.”
“Feel the passion. Hah. Yes, there are times when that happens.”
“And those are the times you feel connected to your readers.”
“I suppose I do.”
“Then how is it your moment versus theirs.”
“But they don’t get the exact same feeling.”
“But they get the gist of it?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Then can’t there be times when the moment is the same for us.”
“I thought I was the practical one, but then again, this is a very romantic point of view.”
“Leave romance out of it and answer the question.”
“No. There is always a difference in the moment.”
“Stop being stubborn.”
“Okay. Okay. So there can be sometimes when the moment is same but that is very rare. Different things mean different things to different people. Like the last sentence, that was alliteration to me, a confusing sentence to you, using the word “different” too many times to someone else, clichéd to another, nonsense to another and so forth. If one simple sentence can change things then how can you expect moments to be the same?”
“Stop trying to confuse me.”
“Exactly. You are confused while I am marveling at my alliteration.”
“Words and moments are very different things.”
“Are you trying to confuse me now?”
“No I am not.”
“Then let’s go get a cup of coffee and continue this there.”
“Let’s. Maybe we will create another moment.”
“Maybe it will be the same.”
“It will.”
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